The Science of Parenthood
by acciokatiee
Summary: When John's sister Harry dies, her son is forced to live with Sherlock and John. Parentlock and Johnlock! Co-written by ConsultingWriter and heureux-rory :
1. Chapter 1

John blinked away a raindrop that had fallen onto his eyelash. Or was it a tear? He wiped his eyes before he could discern between the two. Sherlock shuffled closer shielding John from any more rainfall. Their shoulders brushed against each other, just barely, just enough.

People were beginning to clear out, to go back to their cars, to catch a cab, to go back to their ordinary lives. They didn't care. Barely noticed the funeral invite. Came out just to pay a few respects, then go back to being happy again. To forgetting Harriet Watson.

Finally, John took a deep breath, nodding to himself silently. _I can do this_repeated through his head like a mantra. Sherlock pressed on the small of his back reassuringly, urging him to go forward. He leaned down to John's height, whispered in his ear. "You need closure."

Sherlock's breath against his ear in the dreary, cold rain gave John the last encouragement he needed. Clutching the damp bunch of poppy flowers in his hand, he walked out from the cover of the umbrella, away from Sherlock, towards Harry's grave.

He laid the bouquet down next to her headstone, just below her name. Straightening himself again, staring up into the thick gray clouds, blinking away raindrops, his reassurance was suddenly gone. Why did he think he was strong enough to do this alone?

He turned his back on Harry's grave to see Sherlock, still sitting under the umbrella, boring his eyes into John. His strong, steadfast eyes, full of reserve, full of certainty. _You can do this._

John turned back to the grave again, taking a deep breath, starting over again. "Harry." He began, his voice breaking, hands shaking. He was right. He couldn't do this. The past few years he hadn't been there for her, hadn't even noticed her spiraling back down into alcoholism, her pleas for a visit. And he couldn't be here for her now.

He stooped back down to retrieve the bundle of flowers, his knuckles lingering on the smooth granite of the gravestone which bore the name _Harriet Watson_. He dragged his fingers across his face, wiping away the last of the raindrop and tear mixture, and turned to go back to Sherlock, back to life in 221B Baker Street, back to solving crimes alongside his best friend, back to a happy life. Just like everyone else.

When he returned to the umbrella-sheltered Sherlock, warm and dry unlike a soaked John, his companion gave him a quizzical look. "That's it?" Sherlock raised an eyebrow as he turned on the ball of his foot towards the car.

John shrugged. "I wasn't there for her when she needed me. How can I be here for her now?" He stuffed the flowers into a garbage can as he was walking by, a little too violently. The noise ricocheted off the can as hard poppy stems collided with strong metal. John kept walking, under the shade of Sherlock's umbrella, and Sherlock didn't protest him going back.

Sherlock was hailing a cab, one hand on the umbrella, the other outstretched, when John spotted a thin, irritated man wearing a suit and glasses carrying a briefcase and an umbrella walking towards them quickly, a frown on his face. John pointed, tapping Sherlock on the arm, feeling like a child, and by the time Sherlock had glanced over to see what was the matter the man had already arrived.

"Good morning." The thin, balding man set his briefcase down after a moment of hesitation, trying not to get the leather wet in the sodden grass, and pretended to smile, to be openly warm to these two strangers. "I'm Mr. Peter Van Dwelling. I believe _you-_" he held his hand out to John- "are Mr. Watson."

John shook his hand half-heartedly, more interested in Mr. Dwelling's briefcase, which had tipped onto the lawn as expected, than the man himself. "Yes, and what are you doing here?"

Sherlock scoffed. "Please. It was easy enough." He put his fingers up to his lips, as if in concentration, but John already knew it was effortless enough. He sighed and dropped his head to the ground as Sherlock. "Your suit and briefcase are old and worn, meaning you've had them for quite some time but only for special occasions, business outings. You have become accustomed to coming to funerals, so much you forgot the customary "Sorry for your loss" everyone includes to their introduction to a family member. You've come with documents you've hid in your coat pocket, bearing the seal of the nearest children's home. John," Sherlock turned to his companion, "You've got a social worker in your presence."

John held back words of praise, and instead questioned the men in front of him. "Why are you here?"

Mr. Dwelling released a sad little laugh, like a sole, faraway boom of thunder after the storm has passed. "You obviously haven't looked through Ms. Watson's will anytime recent. Come with me."


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock and John didn't argue with 's request for a sit down, following him to a small, nearby cafe. The three men took up a booth seat in the corner by the window, raindrops making a steady pitter-pattering sound on the glass. Sherlock and John sat on one side of the booth while the distressed looking social worker sat across from them, setting his briefcase on the table and clicking it open. Sherlock sat with his elbows propped on the table, fingertips to his lips, obviously trying to deduce the situation at hand.

"Now, like I said, it's come to my attention that you haven't read your sister's will. Am I correct?" asked, as he shuffled through numerous files.

"I didn't even know she made one. So, no." John replied a bit sullenly. Why Harry would even have reason to make a will was beyond him. She'd always been too drunk to hardly sign her name on the bill at a bar.

"I suggest you take a look, then." responded, pushing a slightly wrinkled piece of paper over the table at John, who took it in his hands gently, as if it might fall apart at his touch. There were a few graying stains on it, which John didn't need Sherlock to tell him it was from beer. He sighed, and began to graze his tired eyes over the wilting paper. To his surprise, Sherlock wasn't looming over his shoulder reading it also, he was simply watching John's expression from the corner of his eye, perhaps out of concern.

The beginning of the will was the usual, talking about items in her possession that could be of some sort of value, giving them away to better homes. Most things were either given to John or a few of her close girlfriends. Then John's eyes came across the paragraph which must've been what had been here to talk about.

_Now, John. I know this is probably too much to ask of you, but I need you to take care of Colin. I'm aware you two aren't even acquainted, but he's your nephew, and I can only hope you'll love him as much as I do. He's hardly 5, and he's been living with Clara until recently, when she got in a fatal car accident. I know it's coming close to my time, and putting him in an orphanage seems cruel, so he's yours now. Please give him all the love he deserves, he's really a good kid._

After that, the will continued on with a couple goodbyes and sorry's, Harry never was one for being formal so her will seemed very personal. John finished reading with an uncomfortable lump in his throat, his lips pressed together in a thin line. He handed the paper back to . "So, where is he?" John asked, swallowing back his sorrow.

"He's under the orphanage's care right now. We needed your verdict on the situation before he could move in with you. If you decline he will stay in the children's home, and be up for adoption." Mr. Dwelling replied, returning the will to his briefcase.

John opened his mouth to say, "No! Of course he'll be staying with me. If I couldn't be there for my sister, surely I'll be there for her son." but then he remembered his flatmate, taking a risky glance over to him. Sherlock sat up straight, placing his folded hands on the table. He turned his head towards John, his face unreadable.

"Sherlock..." John began softly, as if not to set him on edge. It was obvious Sherlock had figured out what was going on. "You don't...mind, do you?"

It seemed to take every ounce of sheer will in Sherlock's body for him to shake his head ever so slightly. John gave a small, thankful smile in return, and turned back to face . "When will he be moving in, then?"

"Well, there are still legal matters to attend to, so I'd figure after all official processes, you could have him entirely in your custody by next week, if things go smoothly." replied, sliding out of the booth, his thin body standing rimrod straight. John slid out of the booth also, Sherlock following close behind. held out his hand for John, who took it reluctantly. After a solemn thank you, the men parted their ways outside the cafe doors, taking a swift right, and Sherlock and John heading off to their left.

Sherlock raised an arm as a familiar black cab sped near, taking a slow stop towards the edge of the pavement to pick up it's customers. The two huddled inside, Sherlock rambling off their address to the cabbie and they went off.

The ride was silent for the first couple of minutes, but John's burning curiosity got to the better of him. "Are you sure you're okay with this? A five year old boy coming to live with us?" He asked, the words coming out in a hurried jumble.

"He's your nephew." Sherlock stated rather impassively. "You feel as if you owe this to Harriet. I'm not going to get in your way of that."

John stayed silent for a moment. Of course Sherlock knew why he felt as if he needed to do this. "Thank you, Sherlock. I know it's a lot to ask of you, you not being overly fond of kids and all."

"I'm sure I'll survive. As long as he doesn't mess with my experiments or bother my thinking process." Sherlock replied in a steady tone.

"I'm sure I can keep him out of your way." John assured.

"What's his name?"

This surprised John, remembering he hadn't mentioned the boys name. And Sherlock hadn't bothered to take a glance at the will. John could hardly imagine Sherlock calling a child by name, and not simply by something demeaning like 'pet' or 'little one'. "Colin. Colin Watson." John answered.

Sherlock gave a small nod and mumble in acknowledgement. Taking the name and storing it away someplace inside his mind palace.

The cab pulled up at Baker Street, Sherlock hopping out and leaving John to pay, which didn't surprise him. It was the least John could do anyways. After all, asking Sherlock Holmes to live with a five-year-old seemed like the largest nuisance the genius' life could acquire.


End file.
